


Not All Who Wander Are Lost For Long

by sherlocked10097



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marijuana, Post-Reichenbach, RP format, Seblock - Freeform, will add more tags along per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12631539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked10097/pseuds/sherlocked10097
Summary: the moon we love like a brother, while he glows through the roomdancin' around the lies we tell, dancin' around big eyes as welleven the comatose, they don't dance and tellwe live in cities you'll never see onscreennot very pretty, but we sure know how to run thingslivin' in ruins of a palace within my dreamsand you know we're on each other's team





	1. Chapter 1

**[2.5 months after Reichenbach]**

Not as stealthy as you think. Quit following me. -SH

Quit taking down the web. -SM

Not an option, I'm afraid. -SH

Then you'll have to deal with a scope over your shoulder. -SM

Hardly a new sensation. What do you care about the web? Are you in charge now? -SH

Then don't ask. And the boss left it to me, yes. -SM

In over your head? -SH

[delay] I was never the brains behind. Just adjacent. -SM  
Go home. -SM

[delay] I can't. -SH

Then name a place. I'll buy you a ticket. Retire. Easy. -SM

How shockingly magnanimous of you. But no. I need the work. -SH

[delay] You're going to die. -SM

Oh, get some new material. I've heard that one plenty of times. -SH

You nearly died yesterday. The day before that. A week ago, when you were on that train. -SM

[slight delay] Why are you waiting? -SH

For what? -SM

To pull the trigger. -SH

[delay] Why can't you go home? -SM

Told you. Need the work. -SH

There's work to be done in England. Where big brother can protect you. -SM

Perhaps I'm enjoying the freedom. -SH  
You still haven't answered my question. -SH

[long delay] Jim was right about you. You're an idiot. -SM

His life's work was mine, too.  I intend to finish it. -SH

He's dead. It's done. It's mine now. -SM

And you're doing a terrible job of minding it if you're watching me more often than taking shots. -SH

It's over! What will you do when it's all gone, huh? -SM

[Go home. Face the music. DELETED]  Could ask the same of you. -SH

So long as there's a need for crime, it won't ever be gone. It'll just change shape. -SM

Then it seems you and I are bound in a sense. -SH

By contract. -SM

What? -SH

Contract. I signed one about a decade ago. Promising I'd always follow orders, unless I judged them to possibly cause direct harm to the boss. It didn't end with his death. -SM

And an order pertained to me. What was it? -SH

Confidential. -SM

[delay] I'm not going to stop. -SH

Right well. Jim loved you, you know? -SM

[delay] He something'd me. But I wouldn't use that word. -SH

You didn't live with him. -SM

[delay] That's so. -SH

I did. Listened to his musings about you, every day. -SM  
Watched him ruin plans, years in the making, just for you. -SM

So you won't tell me the order but you'll give me much from which to deduce it. -SH

I think he would've wanted you to know. -SM

[slight delay] Thank you. -SH

Welcome. Now stop doing this. -SM

Why! -SH

[delay] Listen, I said you were going to die. I can't let that happen. -SM

So he bequeathed the empire to you...and your services to me. -SH

Essentially. -SM

Strange sense of humour to the last... -SH

Night before his death. He was a bit of a mess. But the order was no less clear. -SM

You knew what was going to happen? -SH

In retrospect, the signs were obvious. But I didn't even consider he would. -SM

[delay] Neither did I. -SH  
Which is obvious.  Barely knew him. -SH  
Except that's not true either. -SH  
Stop telling me. -SH

As long as you're being obstinate, no. Share even just a fraction of my pain, you heartless bastard. -SM

I do but I don't care to discuss it, leave it at that. -SH

Why, because you know it was your fault? -SM

[There are always other reasons. DELETED]  [You lived with him and should have noticed. DELETED]    

[No reply]

[30 minutes later] He used to say your name while he slept. -SM

[delay] John told me once I did the same about Moriarty but that's none of your business and please do shut up now. -SH

Oh gross. I always suspected there was more to the rumours. -SM

For God's sake, I was napping on the sofa. -SH

I wasn't. -SM

I didn't assume so. Must have been difficult, hearing about me all the time. -SH

Yes and no. Mostly no, because I knew he'd kill you eventually. -SM

So he said. -SH

He tried. But he also knew there was a chance you'd make plans. -SM

Of course. I'm clever and so was he. -SH

And he planned for this too, it seems. -SM  
I'm not taking orders from you, though. -SM

I don't care what you do. I'd like to be left alone. -SH

Over my dead body. -SM

Are you angry he didn't arrange that, too? So you didn't have to live with this? -SH

He was always a selfish bastard. -SM

Apparently. Anything else you have to say? -SH

Just that I will be following you. For better or worse. -SM

Not half as ominous as your doing so seemed before I knew about the order. Cheers.  -SH

I'll still shoot you. -SM

[Tonight I'd almost welcome it. DELETED]   Noted. -SH


	2. Chapter 2

" _Fucking stupid asshole..._ " Sebastian grumbled, bloody clothes on his floor, knocked out detective on his hotel bed. He knelt by it, medic kit open by his knees, bowl of warm, soapy water, the towel in it stained pink now. Bandaging up a nasty, but now clean cut on Sherlock's arm, he was so far from happy. "Things I do to keep my promises. Seriously. I could be anywhere right now. But no, you just have to be stubborn, don't you? Useless, the both of you, selfish, childish, reckless, never know how to quit when you're ahead..."

-

What? What the hell was happening? Had he been taken? Sherlock knew his head hurt, everything hurt, and voices, no, _one_ voice...He didn't open his eyes, preferred to let the captor think he was asleep, but when he caught _up_ to the conversation...only one person it could be. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, to Moran too occupied fixing him to notice, and sighed. He could have been fine on his own! But...he didn't feel fine. Fairly sure sitting up wasn't wise, even if he would have loved to grab his coat and dash out, tell Moran he wasn't needed...Sherlock didn't speak yet, simply watched with a critical gaze (if a slightly dazed one), waiting for the diatribe to be over. A little amusing, confirmation from someone outside of Jim that they really had been each other, if only for the wrong reasons. "...talk to yourself often?"

-

If Sebastian froze, it was only a minor hiccup. His hands seized, but went back to what they were doing. Job to finish, everything else extraneous, "Why, yes, quite a lot these days." He said, voice clearer than his annoyed ramble. He medical taped the gauze down, sniffing with disapproval before meeting Sherlock's gaze, "Don't pretend you don't either."

-

Sherlock's _spirit_ flinched, lips a line. Had the sniper not been looking him in the eye for such words, he may have pretended. It just seemed offensive that he knew. Or made an intelligent guess that happened to be correct. Arsehole.

Pointless.

"What's the damage?" he asked rather than insult, reaching over to scratch around the tape, already annoyed with it.

-

"Dunno. I'm hoping for some internal bleeding. But." Sebastian stood, observing the other gauze and bandages he'd already placed, making sure he'd missed nothing. The gauze in Sherlock's hair looked rather funny. _Dumbass, getting your head hit._ His thoughts continued his interrupted insults, "Seems a lot of cuts. Bruises. Most _likely_ a concussion. If you can tell me your name, I'll rule out brain bleeding." He sat at the chair beside the small desk in the corner of the room, sighing. Had to stay sober to monitor his condition. _Lord have mercy_.

-

 _Yes, you'd love that_. But it barely warranted a sneer. "William Shakespeare," Sherlock deadpanned, coughing some after. "Water?" It sounded nice. More sleep did, too. "Thank you, John," he murmured, rolling onto his good arm's side and closing his eyes again.

-

Sebastian sighed heavily, almost breathing out his soul. _Lord, thou art a whore_. He stood, getting a plastic cup from the desk and taking it to the sink, "I know you feel the need to mock, but this is somewhat serious. Need to know if you need to go to the hospital." He held the half-full cup in front of his face.

-

The man had a point. And the urge to sleep was no wiser than sitting up. But Sherlock did the latter just enough to take the cup. "I'm _fine_. I'll remember to thank Jim in my head for your doctoring next time I'm _talking to myself_ ," he muttered bitterly before guzzling down the entire cup. He let it drop to the floor and re-settled against the pillows.

-

Seb blinked, stunned, feeling his heart squirm into knots in his chest. He hadn't- he sat on the edge of the bed, voice vaguely stricken, "He's in there?"

-

Sherlock looked up sharply, wide-eyed, at the change of tone, of posture, and knew it was his fault. Accidentally. Suddenly more alert, suddenly ashamed, suddenly sure he'd said too much. Moran had loved Jim, that was easy to guess at. But he hadn't meant to-- _move_ anyone or anything, and now it was entirely too awkward that he had. "Some...some version, yes," Sherlock admitted, gaze fallen to the blanket out of shyness or respect or both, but it rose curiously again to see how Moran was taking this.

-

 _Fucking great_. Seb sighed again, running a hand through his hair. All he really had was a handful of recordings. He wondered, often, if he had some part of him living in his head, if he'd be less alone. And it was so easy for _Sherlock_ , knew him for all of twenty minutes, probably. Yet his own attempts had always fallen short. He stood, his heart letting go again, sinking under the weight of long dead hope, "Some version. I bet he'll off himself eventually too. Just who he is." Resigned, he returned to the desk, pulling out his phone, "Take a nap. Blood loss plus concussion means you shouldn't be chasing criminals around."

-

John tsked in his head, audible and visible as could be, that staying awake was better for a concussion, and for a flash moment, he saw and heard the concern...

Sherlock inhaled deeply.

"He doesn't speak to me. If that...matters, any. Might someday, but...Smiles. Glares. Shakes his head, nods. Doesn't come close and doesn't talk. I suspect I...deserve it, even from my own subconscious."

-

Seb scoffed, pulling up old texts. Really shouldn't, but doing it more numbed the pain, "Right. What'd he do when I told you to go home?"

-

"I didn't seek it out that night, I was already too-" Wait. Were they having a conversation? Pity party? Sherlock didn't really _trust_ Moran, order or no. "Doesn't matter. I'll leave you to your empire." Sherlock huffed a little. _Even though you won't run it half as brilliantly as Jim. Already don't, if I can go taking it down willy-nilly_. Idiot. Not really an idiot, if Jim had trusted him, but...whatever. Sherlock looked around for any distractions. Telly would be dull, no books in sight, and he did _not_ want to stew in emotions with only Jim Moriarty's Other Love for company.

-

Seb fixed his eyes on the screen, acting disinterested as he wished he were. _Good boy_. "Going home then? Good. Sooner you do, sooner I can go back to Thailand." Well. Planning another sex tour of Bangkok, anyway. "Let big brother babysit instead of me. Let him literally break three necks to get to your passed out arse." Then carry him back. Ha. Fat chance.

-

Really loved to hear himself talk, didn't he? Just because Sherlock was probably the closest thing Moran had to Jim, conversation wasn't _owed_. But...had to admit...having actual company was an interesting novelty. "I meant for the _moment_ , this is merely a pause-" Wait, what? "Three?"

-

"And a fourth I stabbed. Bled a lot." Seb shrugged, placing his phone down -- could only stare at that contact picture for so long. Stupid Irene with her stupid camera. He leaned forward, whispering low, warning, "You're in over your head."

-

So while Sebastian could well shoot him, he was making good on the promise to Jim. Getting his aggression out on those Sherlock had been pursuing, and a fourth he'd...honestly not known was there. The urge to say thank you was overshadowed by the matter-of-fact evenness of Sebastian's tone. "Perhaps," Sherlock admitted quietly. "But I've little else, just now. There was the work before him, and before John and Mrs. Hudson," - _before home_ \- "And there's the work now. I refuse to back down from it simply because it's dangerous. And whether or not you're running 'round making sure your factions know I'm coming, I've managed to sneak up on a few of them. Being dead has its advantages." Sherlock still had his pride, damn it, and though Sebastian Moran was by all means a force with which to reckon...he'd been Jim's force, all but gifted to him for unlucky adventures such as this evening's. They were tied together by that whether they liked it or not. He wouldn't admit it but he almost did like it.

-

"'Dead.'" Sebastian air-quoted at him, "Key word there." He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the bed. Keeping the fucker alive was going to be trickier than he'd estimated. Fine. It's what Jim wanted, and like his new friend, he didn't have much other purpose just now. Maybe Jim had made him swear protection because he knew Sebastian needed a new master. Fat chance _this_ was him, the life equivalent of playing racquetball. "See. If you _actually die_ , you won't have many advantages besides the fact you could travel by mail instead of airline seats."

-

Sherlock couldn't help smirking at the rhetorical. "You're nothing if not visceral," he muttered, sitting up further. Something about the other's presence, former position in Jim's life, did demand respect or at least active interest, no matter how pointless the conversation. "Could have died several times in London. I can go without a babysitter, no matter the orders. I'll simply...be more cautious."

-

"No, you won't." Seb deadpanned, biting the inside of his cheek. Nothing he'd say would get through to him, so why bother? Might as well knock him out himself and leave him on the doctor's doorstep... "You don't _learn_. You just go on. Thinking you're invincible." He pulled large knife out of his boot, the same one he'd used on one of Sherlock's would-be assailants, pointing it at him, "You've mistaken luck and Jim's good graces for _skill_. But the king is dead, and the castle is crumbling. You don't honestly expect the one to fill that void to be so kind, do you?"

-

Sherlock watched passively, listened. Was the man more loyal to the network, or to Jim's dying orders?

Sherlock heard a tut-tut in his head. He blinked slowly, and in that moment was darkness enough to conjure the image of Jim across the pool.

[Sexy when he's threatening, huh?]

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking stricken. "Of course _now_ he has something to say," he grumbled, reaching up and rubbing at his head, stopping when he realized it hurt to do so. "And I disagree, you're _not_ sexy when you're threatening, you're eager to make up for the lost every-other-time you might have done away with me and are fighting with yourself. Make up your mind, won't you?"

-

Seb raised an eyebrow. Funny. Almost insane, the both of them, but that especially. _He's not really here. Never will be_. "Wasn't talking about me." He said, defeated, stabbing the knife into the desk, excellent stick. "At this rate, the web will die, and I will be left _irrelevant_. Then Jim's orders, _all of them_ , dry up with no one to defend..." He offered a wry smile, "I don't pretend that I'm going to be the one to rise from the ashes. It'll be someone far more ambitious." _Someone less broken_. "Who will most certainly see you as a threat."

-

"You're defending me," Sherlock pointed out. "Four kills an hour ago. Commendable. I won't give you orders. But I will say I appreciate it."

-

"I can't do it forever. And without Jim's order of protection, I'll be up against a _lot_ more. Get it?"

-

Sherlock huffed, but nodded. Surreal thing to be negotiating, but he thought he could. "...I'll spend longer periods researching and undercover, and when I do strike will make more of an effort to involve local authorities, sometimes anonymously and allow them to do the dirty work. Less peril for me, less excess trouble for you."

-

Sebastian sighed. Better than nothing. "Fine. Whatever. I'm still going to be on you until you're home." Just wasn't safe here, and he didn't have a second lieutenant.

-

Sherlock nodded again, solemnly. It wasn't John at his side, but still a protector. Just as Sherlock wasn't Jim, but Sebastian...must have needed someone to look after. After so long doing it for Jim, it must have been habit. Went beyond following orders. Moran must have loved Jim very much to carry this unpleasant one out as long as necessary.  
Sherlock wet his lips. "...I'm not going to suddenly flatline on you, you know. If you'd like to have a drink and pretend I'm not here, that's fine. Though if you had cigarettes enough to share, much obliged." He leaned over, picking up the plastic cup. "And more water if it's...not too much trouble." Was Jim ever that polite about asking for things? He doubted it. So Sherlock at least made an effort.

-

 _A drink. Not the bottle. Hard distinction to make these days._ But he couldn't. Any amount of avoiding this, ignoring him, was essentially a betrayal. That included negligence. "I've often heard warnings that cigarettes are bad for the healing process." Seb murmured, taking the cup from him, filling it in the sink, returning looking him over. Good god, he was a mess. "Can you sit up properly? Slow, obviously."

-

Sherlock began to do so, slowly as instructed. Still quite pained, dizzy, and his arm _burned_ but nothing fatal. He reached for the cup, looking Sebastian's face over, other scars visible on the sniper's arms, hands. "Has that ever stopped _you_ smoking?"

-

Seb laughed. Well, no, in fact, didn't even stop him from lighting up _as_ he was getting stitches. "I'm not the patient." He evaded smoothly, handing off the cup, leaning back into the wall, "But by all means, I won't stop you."

-

 _Didn't think so_. Sherlock accepted the cup, sipping more carefully this time. "I don't have any, was hoping you might," he muttered, not exactly asking.

-

"Yeah, I know. But. Did you forget your insides might be bleeding?" He asked, but went to the hook on the back of the door anyway, pulling his cigs and Zippo out of the pocket, tossing them on the bed, "I'm still not entirely certain you know your name."

-

"Perhaps _that's_ why he decided to pipe up, blood running down the walls, he's suddenly more at home," Sherlock said glibly, reaching for the smokes. He was fine, or would be. Well, not fine. Sounded more than a little mad, speaking of the Jim in his head as if he were a separate entity. Silly. But even if having _real_ company was somewhat welcome, it was possible he needed help reconciling that it was _this_ person he was speaking to. He'd have liked more time in his head, see if Jim would say more, but couldn't have it yet and this fact annoyed him secretly.

-

"Careful with your imaginary friend, there." Seb rolled his eyes, sighing again. What _did_ make Jim feel at home? If Conduit Street was ever really home to him, rather than a place the Magpie chose to perch on one such leg of his journey. "But you didn't know him at all, did you? He wouldn't have stood for this. Too small, for one. And he kept a clean hearth. No amount of blood was acceptable when not at the office."

-

Sherlock lit the cigarette, expression inscrutably nothing as he listened, but interest sparkled in his eyes when they rose to Sebastian's face whether he'd admit it or not. "He despised my dust and decorating," Sherlock agreed through a plume of smoke, remembering Jim's rude comments about 221b when he made his little video there. Sherlock felt...troubled. Sad. He might have let himself know Jim better. Might have...a million things. He tossed the lighter and pack carelessly back towards the end of the bed nearest Sebastian. "Or acted as if he did." _You say he loved me, never acted that either. But in the moments he **wasn't** acting_... Sherlock shook his head. Regret was pointless, a glaring weak spot for the striking if it showed.

-

Seb snorted, "No, he really did." _He didn't lie to you, at least not for long_. Jim had discussed (to the open air, not directly with himself) going in and redecorating while the detective duo were out, and hiring a maid. But ultimately he drew the correct conclusion that it'd go unappreciated. "Why? Want to strengthen your little ghost? Become the new king?"

-

Sherlock smiled wanly. Whatever, _he_ liked 221b. Missed it terribly. His chair especially. And John. The smile faded. _Little ghost._ He swallowed, cigarette hanging between his fingers, temporarily forgotten. "My part is to tear down the network, not rebuild it," he said quietly, gaze and question averted. _But if he talked more, I wouldn't hate it_.

-

"But you didn't deny wanting Jim inside you." Sebastian stuck his tongue half out, pleased as fuck with himself.

-

Another aversion, bringing the cigarette to his mouth again, ashing into the cup on the nightstand. The smoke was coughed out, painfully, in surprise at the comment. How dare Moran! Sherlock glared at him, ineffectual through coughing twice again against his arm. "I didn't say anything of the sort!" he protested, still staring daggers. Were it not for the coughing he may have handled the innuendo more cleverly, but - really!

-

"You want him in your head, don't you? Complete personality, throbbing heart?" Seb pointed out, winking slowly, salaciously. Maybe he could have a bit of a laugh here after all. The man who usually ruined his fun getting a little of it back -- Jim would've appreciated that, all in good fun.

-

"Charming," Sherlock growled, a little disgusted as much at himself as the sniper. Yes, he wanted that. Badly. And Moran knew...because he likely did as well. Cover it with a cocky wink or no, Sherlock had his number. But for whatever reason didn't care just yet to attack it. "Wish too late I'd gotten to know him better," he admitted simply, taking another drag before tossing the cigarette into the cup, folding his arms across his chest, petulantly staring Moran down as if the admission alone were any kind of bargaining chip, at least to veer away from filthier versions of the same regrets.

-

"Charming enough for him, I suppose. And most of Asia." Sebastian shrugged, deciding against his better judgement and taking up a smoke, lighting it as a way to get away from that squirming feeling again. "Want to know something else, do you?" He smiled to himself, but there was pain. Boiling just under his stomach, flushing in his face, "I guess he's dead, right? Nothing will get back to him if I spill."

-

"He told me only what he wanted me to know," Sherlock said brusquely as if fact were denial, still looking away. He wanted every detail even if it killed him. He wanted the mysteries of Jim unraveled even as he wanted to keep them buried and secret and exciting forever. Why did this _hurt_?

-

Seb scoffed, wetting his lips, "You're supposed to be smart? Maybe Jim was just projecting greatness into you, and no, don't blame the concussion." He inhaled, breathing a plume of smoke onto the ceiling. _Told_. Jim didn't _tell_ , he just revealed things every now and then, and conclusions had to be drawn. That Jim might've told the detective anything at all, _if_ he really did, and Sherlock did nothing with that information? Shame on him, truly. "He wanted you to know everything, you were just too dumb to see it."

-

Sherlock released a long breath, gritted his teeth. Careless hardly equated stupidity...Being _stupidly and purposely_ careless, even that didn't make Moran correct, but...Details! Distraction! Regret, that was what hurt, and the infamous "Tiger" was pouncing and tearing right at the wound, far worse than the ones he'd patched up. "Spill, then," he ground out.

-

Seb sat on the bed, smirking, ashing onto the carpet -- how Jim would always _enjoy_ it. "He said your name once, in bed. Kind of insulting, really." Kicked him out - immediately, trust that never properly healed, but he managed to look fairly disinterested, if only to observe Sherlock's reaction. "Especially since I'd tried so hard to keep his mind on the whip. Should've gagged him too."

-

Not a shock outside of Moran's blase storyteller tone. _Thought of me in bed, of course he did, he thought of me in MY bed sometimes._ But the second part...Sherlock's hands clenched. So Jim would have wanted that. Funny, considering how often he'd considered it might be useful to simply _beat_ the riddle-taunting, evasive man, just to see what would happen. Nearly, on the roof. Jim would have _enjoyed_ it. Mental images came unbidden and Sherlock leaned forward abruptly, snatching up the Marlboro pack, taking the cigarettes and snapping the remaining ones in half. He crumbled them, tossing a handful of tobacco and paper over the edge of the bed. " _Well_ , seems you're out of smokes, why don't you run out and get some more!"

-

Seb blinked, unable to process- _this little shit._ Absolute! "No." He said simply, an undercurrent of spite coming dangerously close to overt. Could dish it, but couldn't take it. "I've got other stuff to keep me entertained... Do you?"

-

 _Ha._ "Yes, do shut up," Sherlock said succinctly, laying back on his side, bolstered by the petty victory. Moran wouldn't leave but perhaps Sherlock could find the necessary quiet after all, to have _another_ conversation...

-

Moran narrowed his eyes, though the effect was somewhat lost with Sherlock's eyes elsewhere. "I'm calling the front desk for a cot. You don't get to take my bed." He sniffed, dialing the room phone down to the concierge. They'd have it up in twenty minutes. Great.

-

"I'll stay awake," he promised in a mutter, good-natured at least on that front. But he closed his eyes, breath relaxing, fairly sure Moran wouldn't sneak up on him with the knife though why shouldn't he? He sought the scent of chlorine in his memory bank, the glow and lapping of the water, Jim...

-

Seb sat at the desk, flipping on the TV, leaving the volume low in consideration. He looked over at him, body suddenly quite still. He knew that relaxation. Absolute concentration. Didn't know if he fancied interrupting it, so he settled on the usual plan B: drink and check work email.

-

He wasn't there anymore. At least, not visible. Sherlock head scuffles of footsteps in the shadows but no matter where he looked, no Jim. But light entered through an open door, and strains of Bach played softly from within. Sherlock walked to it cautiously.

Far too fancy for a public pool's office. Pristine. Fireplace roaring, the furniture expensive. Jim sat at the laptop, ignoring him, Sebastian's hotel room on the screen in grainy surveillance black and white. Sherlock stood in the doorway, just watching.  
  
  _You're enjoying this._

_ [Of course. Never imagined you two would get on so well.] _

_I wouldn't call it 'well.'_

_ [Comparitively. Do you need something?] _

_Why did you send him to me?_

_[Don't be boring, sweetheart. He told you that already. What, don't  believe him?]_

_As a rule...no._

_[Then change the rules.]_

_...look at me, Jim._

_[I am, you're curled there like an invalid, get out of here and go talk to real people. He needs it, too, you know. Keep that in mind and you'll be less scared of him.]_

_I'm not scared of him._

_[You're scared of what he alone can make you feel, though. Aren't you. Or you wouldn't be running off to me for clarification and comfort. Take some time to process, we'll talk soon.]_  
  
The door closed on its own, Bach's volume turned up louder and in real life, Sherlock was shoving a light punch into the pillow in frustration before opening his eyes. "Useless." But his subconscious was right: there simply wasn't time, energy or privacy enough for a real chat, and he very much did need to process.

-

"Hmm?" Sebastian hummed through a sip of whiskey, eyes on the TV. The cot had been placed in the corner of the room farthest from the bed.

-

"Doesn't want to talk. Prefers _we_ do. Think he's enjoying this," Sherlock huffed, eyeing the cot, knowing he was supposed to move to it but not enjoying the prospect.

-

"Sounds like you've got _that_ part of him down." Seb said bitterly. How _would_ Jim have responded? He'd never expressed that he wanted them in the same room before, he always did the talking while Seb stayed approximately three hundred feet away, give or take a roof. But now that he didn't talk... Well, no, he'd still planned on Seb staying a bullet's travel away, right?

Right?

"Give him a mustache. He'll hate it."

-

Sherlock glanced over at the other man, a tiny smirk on his lips. Jim was far too careful about his appearance to allow it, he knew that much, and the thought was admittedly entertaining. "Handlebar or Freddie Mercury?"

-

"Handlebar." Seb smiled despite himself, tossing back the rest of his drink, shivering some. "He might rationalize Freddie is cool... And why do you know who Freddie Mercury is anyway?"

-

"I'm not completely oblivious to modern culture. I was fourteen when he passed, it was all over the news," Sherlock answered, mentally preparing himself to get up and venture over to the cot. He sat up once more, tugging at the top blanket so that he could carry it over.

-

Seb watched, sighing. Yep. Exactly Jim. Details were a little fuzzy, but at the core, both brats beyond polite society. "Christ, you're young." He shook his head -- what was he? 24, 25? And a Captain in the Gulf.

-

"Certainly don't feel it," Sherlock muttered, gathering up the blanket and one of the pillows, the one with his blood already on it, and made it carefully to standing, shuffling over to the cot and setting the pillow on it, already chagrined; his feet would surely hang off the edge of the damn thing. He sat upright in its center, testing his body's current limits. "Will you hand me my coat."

-

"No." Seb said simply, pouring himself another drink, "Or... Yes, and give back my bedding."

-

"I need both, I'm _cold_ ," Sherlock pointed out miserably. "Blood loss, probably..."

-

Seb sighed, standing, stomping over to the coat and tossing it in Sherlock's general direction, "You're a little better than him. But not much."

-

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he shuffled to get the coat over his shoulders, comforted a little by its weight. "Did you ever have to patch him up? I imagine he avoided work injury altogether..."

-

Seb bit his lower lip, thinking back. "He never suffered a work injury, no."

-

"Did he have any scars, like you?" Sherlock asked, quite out of innocent curiosity, before something clicked. No _work_ injuries; _signs_ in the past; it didn't necessarily mean Jim had-- but Sherlock put up a hand nonetheless, head bowed. "Forgive me for...that question."

-

Oh good, he got it. No need to entirely spell it out, as he shouldn't have to. Irish bastard kept most of the crappy habits Sherlock committed to his own body. "Save for a cigarette burn or two, nothing like me."

-

Sherlock nodded, relieved. "Good," he said quietly. "Good." He clutched the coat a little tighter around his shoulders, letting silence reign for as long as Sebastian wished it to. A moment of respect for the departed.

-

"Don't get all soft on me now." Seb scolded mildly, "It's just not who you are, and it's weirding me out a bit."

-

"Not who he was either, right?" Sherlock asked ironically, sighing a little. "But. Fair point. I'm sure he'd rather we do anything but sit here like this. Fight. Wrestle without shirts. Listen to disco." The detective sighed softly again, easing down onto the cot, reclining and attempting to get comfortable. "For my part I intend to sleep. Lights?"

-

Seb choked a bit on his drink. _Well._ "Maybe I'll turn on some disco while you're asleep, see where things go." He wiped off his mouth, standing and flipping the light switch. "Night night, try not to die in your sleep."

-

 _No, thank you_. Sherlock ignored the provocation, and would have smiled were the cot not so difficult to find comfort upon. "So long's you try to resist  the urge to kill me in my sleep," he murmured amicably.

-

"You're not annoying enough to kill for free." Seb stated simply, grabbing his whiskey, laying on his stripped bed and taking another careful sip, turning down the TV further. "Sleep well."

-

Sherlock blinked. Really? John would disagree. So would Mycroft. Should he endeavor to be _more_ annoying? It was one of the nicer things he could remember anyone saying to him. Wasn't that pathetic! He'd take what he could get, especially now. He hummed something that may have meant 'you, too', and focused on the background noise of the telly, and the strange safety that came from bedding down in the same room as Jim's trusted second. But. "...if I do die in my sleep, don't tell John?" Important enough to voice, but Sherlock covered the sentiment briskly. "Won't let him kick himself that I went without a proper doctor."

-

How sweet. Seb huffed, shaking his head, "Thinks you're dead already, no need to add insult to further festering wound." He raised his glass in his direction, "You died a hero's death, he knows this now. We can leave it at that."

-

"Thank you." Sherlock pulled the coat and blanket tighter, and missed his own bed sorely. Thankfully he'd gotten used to sleeping in clothes, in case of emergencies, so that wasn't too bothersome. Still, sleep wouldn't come easy. But he'd try. "Goodnight."

-

"Goodnight." Seb replied, opening the music app on his phone, playing Shadow Dancing on low volume.

-

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _I'm not crawling into your bed after you kicked me out of it._

_Genius specialty consultants are not interchangeable._

_You're funny, though, I'll grant you that._

Sherlock kept the comments to himself for sake of peace and quiet.

He didn't seek Jim out again in his head but thanks to the music it was all too easy to picture his spirit in the room. Perhaps nodding along to the beat while looking out the window, or curled up beside Sebastian Moran though Sherlock couldn't _picture_ it, Jim Moriarty _snuggling_ with anyone...

But if that little ghost could sleep awhile as they did, the dreams may not be so bad.

-

The lack of response was actually cute. Either he was being ignored, or Sherlock had already fallen asleep. Maybe they couldn't be friends, but it was better than fighting for the soulless man he'd thought he was charged with keeping.

  
Eventually, as the songs shuffled to something more modern -- Arctic Monkeys? -- Seb nodded off as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**[Next morning]**

First thought, 'where the hell am I?' answered by a quick glance at the bed, where Moran lay with his arm thrown over the pillow beneath his head, sleeping tiger.

Second thought, 'I look a wreck', happening when Sherlock had stood and took a glance in the mirror. Bandage practically matted to his head. He was certain he smelled no better than he appeared.

Third thought was more his stomach's, a loud growl.

Sherlock glanced back at Moran blearily. Maybe looked awful but _felt_ tolerably as if he'd survive the world. Find food, a pharmacy, clean replacement bandages, a room of his own. Eat, clean up, carry on his way. And get the hell out of the sniper's. 

He felt relatively sure it wouldn't be the last they saw of each other. 

Sherlock moved to the wall, selected his phone which Moran had been kind enough to plug in before he'd even woken up, casting the man one last curious look before rising straighter, turning to leave.

-

Asleep. And then he wasn't. Military-trained, he was never 100% "asleep," so much as relaxing between periods of thinking he'd be stabbed at any moment. But this wasn't a threat to him, exactly. Without thinking, without consciousness, his hand shot out, grabbing a wrist.

Eyes still screwed shut, he worked to remember _who_ he was grabbing, speaking before he was fully composed, "You've got a concussion. You're not going anywhere." He muttered, groaning some and rolling over, fixing Sherlock with annoyed eyes, "What do you need?"

-

Sherlock sighed. Caught. "You're as bad as my brother," he accused mildly, pulling his hand away eyes roaming the ceiling. "But since you asked -- food, new bandages, and a shower wouldn't go amiss." He glanced back down at Moran, wondering if the sniper were perpetually grumpy in the mornings or if it was just this particular circumstance, and-- good lord. An utterly normal condition, morning erections, but...well, it caught Sherlock's eye simply for _proportion_. He might have blushed but the urge to make fun took precedence over shock, eyebrow raising. "Though seems you need the shower first," he said wryly, moving back to the chair in the room, slipping his coat off upon it, back to Sebastian to hide his resignation at being stuck here; better to be a _nuisance_ than a _captive._

-

Seb rolled his eyes, relinquishing Sherlock's wrist, "I understand you're a eunuch, but it's a perfectly natural thing in the morning." He sat up, ruffling his hair. Slight hangover and a terrible taste in his mouth. Lovely. "Bandages in the kit." He gestured to the plastic box next to the bed. "Use the phone for room service, and if you try and escape while I shower, I will chain you to the cot. Verstehen?"

-

Sherlock wasn't a eunuch but that was none of Moran's business; a surreptitious second glance via the mirror might have said as much, but thankfully the sniper did not seem to notice. "Ich verstehe." Sherlock took up the bowl of water from the night before, moving to the bathroom and dumping out the pink-tinged remnants, rinsing it before filling it again. Patch himself back up while Sebastian did...whatever he needed to do. "What shall I order you?" he called through the open door.

-

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Seb grunted, pulling an outfit from his army bag, pushing past Sherlock into the bathroom, turning on the shower to hot. "I'm not picky."

-

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at feeling himself flushed faintly at the comment - _noticed after all_ \- but nodded, grabbing a new washcloth and vacating quickly after Sebastian's arrival in the tiny room. Better to sort out the bandages himself - not squeamish, and Moran wouldn't see him grimacing in pain when they pulled his hair and mock him for it. He set the items on the desk and found the remote, switching to a classical music radio station, volume higher up, and returning to the mirror set to work undoing the wrapping. Not fun at all, but at least he'd _woken up_ at all. He next removed his shirt to better deal with the wound on his arm.

-

Seb shut the door, even if he had half a mind to strip without it. Felt like returning some of that attitude, but alas. Either nothing would happen, or something would happen, and neither outcome was preferable. He threw his clothes on the floor, stepping into the spray. 

And despite any teasing, he wouldn't wank. Didn't seem right.

After finishing the shower off with a blast of the icy side, he took his time drying off, dressing again, stepping out to Wagner. "What is it with geniuses and classical music?" He asked, laying back on his bed, slinging an arm over his eyes.

-

Sherlock heard him return but didn't look up, focused on sanitizing the wound, hissing some when it stung. "Relaxing. No lyrics to fuss over whether they're clever. Most of us can play an instrument or another."

-

Seb scoffed, more reflexively than out of any real response. He looked over at his guest, sitting up, "Want me to do that?"

-

"Probably easier," Sherlock admitted with a tiny sigh, setting down the alcohol pad and bringing gauze and medical tape to the bed. Didn't exactly relish being shirtless around Moran, but wasn't shy in that regard, perching at the edge of the bed. "I'm fortunate it's not broken, truth be told."

-

Seb got on the floor next to him, kneeling for eye level with his arm. "Fortunate they didn't take it off you entirely." He picked up the alcohol swab, swiping it over the large cut, holding it out so it dried quickly. "They didn't even know who you were, can you believe it?"

-

"Useful, considering how deceased I'm supposed to be," Sherlock smirked, and for a moment, there was something... _different_ about it. Almost co-conspirators, almost friendly, almost as if Sebastian Moran cared a little, though his hands had likely only ever patched up Jim with actual care. Now they were _only_ useful, so why rely on it with something like contentment? John-like, perhaps, and Sherlock missed him, 99% obtuse or not, more than he'd like to admit. "Doubt I'll be as lucky in every country. But as I said. I'll cut back on the fray-leaping. If only for your sake." Friendliness did indeed prevail, just for now, overshouted only by another growl from his stomach. Sherlock frowned down at his midsection. "Quit that."

-

"Order food already, or too busy whining about a little scratch?" Seb asked, placing the gauze against his arm, taping it up. "You can fray-leap on occasion. Just not until you're in better shape. So for now..." He got another alcohol swab, dabbing at a smaller cut on Sherlock's stomach, "Stick to police scanners and anonymous tips, hmm?"

-

"I hardly need your permission," Sherlock scowled, annoyed that his attempt as politeness, something akin to giving a damn, went unappreciated. He didn't do it for just anyone! Sherlock twitched a little, gasping at the sting, leaning out of reach to grab for the phone. "Room service number?"

-

"163. Room 2424." Seb moved to his clavicle, seeing to the minor cuts that didn't need proper band aids. "Do try not to insult them, hm?" He'd been chatting up the concierge in his off time, didn't want his guest ruining his image.

-

Sherlock typed in the number, glaring some at Sebastian's ministrations, again shifting away. They were distracting. "Yes, um, room 2424, we'd like breakfast. Muffins, eggs, bacon? What-have-you. And if a member of the staff would be so kind as to bring cigarettes-- not a problem. Marlboro. And an extra blanket. Thank you." Sherlock hung up. "Not that I actually _want_ to be here another night, another room would suit just as well, you know."

-

"Another room, you don't have someone with a gun looking out for you." Seb pointed out, "Thanks for the extra blanket consideration." He stood, gently running a hand over Sherlock's hairline, pulling it back to inspect the cut. Healing up nicely, but he still cleaned out, letting it breathe before letting the hair fall back in place.

-

Sherlock's gaze slid to Sebastian's approaching hand with obvious suspicion. He wasn't accustomed to being touched outside hand-to-hand combat, and practical or not, that one hadn't the sting of antiseptic to detract. Gentle. Like Irene had been by the fire, and just as untrustworthy. Had Moran touched anyone gently since Jim? Ah, there was the sting. Good. Gave him something to fight or whine about. "'Fess up, you'd rather I'd perished in my sleep, orders from on high or no."

-

Seb smirked, faltering to sad, letting his hand sweep down, under his jaw, tilting his head up to look at him. Oh, the pain this face had caused, to probably thousands. "My orders are how I feel, detective. It's what happens when you devote yourself to something. Entirely. Unconditionally." Because love still ruled him, ran through him, commanded him to do its bidding. Love was a whore too.

-

Rather how Sherlock felt about The Work, only he'd replace 'how' for 'all'. But the earnest sorrow Moran couldn't conceal, it shocked Sherlock a little, and he wanted to say he was sorry for the man's loss, for both of theirs. Two adrift, who surely weren't meant to come together except for ever-present Jim ensuring it. 

With a speech like that he could see a little of why Jim had liked him, or loved him, kept him around and trusted him. But he defied the attention-demanding touch, standing, moving away, back to the chair and his shirt. "I'm glad he had you," he said stiffly, starting on the lower buttons, quite unable to look at the other man while saying it. "I know what it's like, having a mind such as his, and I'm certain you did him good."

-

"Yeah, but I wasn't enough." Sebastian shrugged, matter of fact. Because it was fact, and it stung, but nowhere near the pain of having to live _in honor_ of him, rather than _for_. "He thought you were done here too, had enough. He was trying to be kind." Just in time, he went to answer a knock at the door, tipping the waiter extra for the smokes and blanket, rolling in the cart himself, grateful for something else to do.

-

The words hit Sherlock hard.

_Done. Had enough._

_Kind._

There were times it would have been so. 

Either long before Baker Street or, oh, right about now when he'd lost everything. 

Yet Jim's orders to Sebastian would prevent it, or were meant to protect the sniper more than himself, because Sherlock wouldn't arrest him so long as he was useful--

Or something like that.

He didn't know why the idea cut him to the very bone but there he stood, shirt only half buttoned from the bottom, hand clutching over the wound on the opposite arm, silent, trembling, lips pressed tight as if that might stave off the suddenly welling tears.

-

Seb had already bitten into a muffin, absorbed in his own thoughts before he noticed Sherlock hadn't come. Hungry enough to chastise his body, yet... _Oh_. That look. He knew that look. "Hey." His tone was softer, almost a whisper as he approached him, "He was pretty bad at the 'kind' thing. Thought it was the height of philanthropic endeavors to carve his initials into my hip." Even if Moran had been biting down on a pillow to keep from coming in his pants -- most people wouldn't have seen it that way. He broke off a piece of the muffin, pressing it against Sherlock's lips, "Like now, rather than try and feed you, he would've smashed it into your face."

-

Sherlock vaguely gave Moran points for trying but the ache inside was too loud, consuming. He turned away from the muffin, not ready to accept it as the better option. "He wasn't wrong," was all he managed to get out, chest tightening in a way he'd avoided for _months_ now. Slow down from the work for one minute and _this_ was what happened? Mourning all he'd lost (but not really, because he'd not given Jim the time of day), and now the only one who'd ever known him, truly, without ever having to explain a single thing- Sherlock wished he were alone. Well, he _was_. Utterly. Moran didn't count, yet when he felt on the verge of howling out, the man's presence did. In a completely unwelcome way. A whisper of 'excuse me' barely made it past his lips before he all but fled the room, to the hall, seeking a stairs exit.

-

Seb sighed. Yep. Definitely Jim. Running from his problems, namely his unreasonable and often clumsy-mouthed sniper. _Mental note, jam door when return._ He shoved the remaining muffin in his mouth, grabbing the extra blanket and following at a brisk pace into the hall, listening for cues as to where he'd scampered. Heavy breathing of the injured echoed up the stairs, Moran approaching slowly, throwing the blanket over his shoulders before sitting beside him. "He was wrong, though. You're still here. Because you wanted to be."

-

The stairs themselves were as good a destination as any; Sherlock landed upon them in a curled heap, clenching his teeth, trying to hold it in. Pointless. Knot in his throat, eyes spilling, and he barely really knew _why_ , whether he was more sorry for Jim or for himself. A sob wrenched out, thankfully silent, as he heard the door and footsteps that had to be Moran's. Why! Why couldn't the man leave him alone for just one bloody minute to deal with this! It wasn't peril, it wasn't physical injury, so why did he care? _Here, see, I'm not heartless after all, does that please you?_ Sherlock drew in a shaking breath, rubbing his face against his sleeve, trying to compose himself rather than shove off the blanket. Oh, Moran understood. Anything Sherlock said along the lines of 'but there's no point anymore', would almost be an insult to the sniper's own pain. "I-  I didn't know it would be this- this hard," he admitted, not lifting his head, sniffling in an attempt to stop it all coming out. "Let me alone, I'll come back, I just need..."

-

Seb sighed, patting his shoulder. He understood, even if it was dangerous. How much alone time had he taken himself? Even after he'd found out the rat survived on. "Yeah, okay." He stood up, going back up the stairs, pausing a moment, "But if you get your arse kidnapped, I'm not coming for you."

-

_Liar._

Comforting, in a way.

It took Sherlock ten minutes to gather himself together. This simply wasn't the time or place to sob and wallow too long, and he felt childish about it. Brain a muddle, hunger beginning to grate, he returned to the room, knocking when he found it locked. "You see why I need the work," was all he said when Sebastian opened the door, setting the blanket rumpled beneath his arm on the bed, moving sluggishly over to the food.

-

"No." Sebastian locked the door behind him, pressing his forehead against it. "All I see is exactly why you need to find something else." He went to the food, serving up some eggs onto a plate. "The work is a distraction. It's not dealing with the problem. Which I'm sure is what killed him, in the end."

-

"Soldier, sniper _and_ therapist now, are you," Sherlock muttered, but it didn't come out very sharp. He sat, taking a slice of bacon and munching at it morosely.

-

_Was paid to keep on eye on him, sure. Drew conclusions._ But he didn't say it; if Sherlock didn't know already, no use. Instead, he pulled out his phone, opening it to the homepage, a picture of he and Jim from afar, laughing together. He set it on the tray in front of Sherlock. "It was possible for him to be happy without it."

-

Sherlock peered down at the picture, a sad smile touching his lips. Jim looked... _normal._ Not the manic, mad smile on the roof; the ones at the pool designed to put one ill at ease...just happy, human. Sherlock had already stated he was glad Sebastian had been around for him, what more could he say without both lamenting that it hadn't been enough? "...may I see some more?" he asked mildly, not presuming to simply start flipping through, taking another bite.

-

"What little I've got, it's yours." Seb picked up his phone, opening up his photos, photo album specifically devoted to Jim. He handed it back to him, "Secretive guy by profession, but living together constantly, you know, I caught him once or twice."

-

Sherlock couldn't say for sure why he'd asked. Punish himself more, perhaps? Adjust the image of Jim in his mind to better suit the reality? Or to merely even the playing field (all too late) since Jim had known so much about him?

Sat at a desk with two keyboards, three monitors, turned enough towards the camera to glare. 

Leaning against a balcony, looked like Italian architecture in the background, cigarette in hand. Surprised Sherlock, Jim hadn't struck him a smoker.

Asleep, lips parted a little, shoulders bare, hair ungelled and messy. Striking in its innocence and peace. Bet Jim would have been furious with Sebastian for that one.

Sherlock half-wanted to text it to himself, but it wasn't for him. Still, he couldn't look away from it.

"I'd have only gotten in the way," he stated softly. "More than I did, at any rate."

-

"Maybe." Sebastian was quiet while he ate a bit, not wanting to say any of what was in his head. Because even if Sherlock could've eased the pain, or even helped the both of them out of that nasty pit of despair, it was over. "Maybe. But it's not about him anymore."

-

How could that possibly be true? 

Sherlock exited out of the pictures, set the phone aside, and looked curiously at Moran. "Enlighten me as to what it's about, then," he suggested, reaching for a muffin, biting carefully so as not to get crumbs everywhere.

-

"Dunno." Seb shrugged, "At least... I don't know _yet_. But he's fine. It's you I've got to worry about now."  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**[a couple weeks later, 1 AM]**

Oy. You. Stop what you're doing. -SM

Ah. Moran. Sex tour of Bangkok going well? -SH

The tour of following you into a drug den? Ends now. -SM

It's recon. -SH

It's heroin. -SM

Yes but that's not where my interest lies at the moment. -SH

Oh I'm sure. -SM

Really. If you run the network you can ask your lackeys later as to whether I did any purchasing, can't you? I'm pretending. That's all. -SH

Not if you make them disappear. -SM

[Slight delay] More your style than mine, is that not? -SH

I'm worried you'll get tempted or something. -SM

Touching. And without the work your concern may be more valid and urgent. As it is, I suggest allowing me my adventure. -SH

I'm warning you. The shit they're peddling here is impure. -SH

"Here". So you really are following me, not just relying on their word. -SH  
Though I'm giving you mine, I won't touch it. -SH

Fine. -SM  
Do have some hash though. If you were interested. -SM  
Also booze. -SM

[Lonely this evening? DELETED]  Perhaps after I'm finished here. -SH

Fine, but I'm watching. -SM

[1 hour later] Am I meant to ferret you out from the bushes nearby or do you have an address for me? -SH

Ritziest joint in town, ask for Mr. Cromwell. -SM


	5. Chapter 5

Scotch number four was probably ill advised. As was the second joint loosely perched on his lips. But special occasion, right? He laughed, splayed out on his bed, quickly devolving into a stoner giggle. Had he really invited Sherlock? The detective didn't know what for, obviously, probably. Oh well. He turned up his mobile, amping up Ziggy Stardust into the empty air, barely so much as an, "It's open" when he heard a knock.

-

Sebastian may not have known it, but he'd helped. The tip made for good research: refuse a dealer due to rumors of impurity, others step in, suggest names...Not much to go off of, but little by little, Sherlock could infiltrate to the man at the top who dealt _and_ had other 'hobbies' of interest. Sherlock felt a little victorious leaving, a little high though he wasn't. Intended to become so, yes, but...almost a reward for not having done worse.

It was the offer, not the prospect of seeing Moran, that pleased him. Their previous encounter had only been two weeks ago. Why did he invite Sherlock? Who knew, who cared, it was a way to relax.

Upon hearing the permission to enter, Sherlock did, about to say it wasn't safe to leave one's door unlocked, but amused by the smoke in the room, and the sniper's evident relaxation. "Started the party without me, hmm," he observed with a faint smile, removing his coat. Despite not knowing why, he felt he had something to prove, rolling up his sleeves, showing clean arms. "See? I behaved." Granted, he could have jabbed a needle into his foot just as well, but his voice words didn't slur and his eyes were clear, alight only with the detective's thrill of the hunt.

-

"Mhm." Seb nodded, "Pills can be swallowed, though I don't fancy checking for those." He sat up slowly, eyes looking up and down, "And you're not limping, so no toe sticks." He smiled in approval, taking the joint out of his mouth, offering it to Sherlock.

-

Sherlock had a willful streak countless kilometers long, but there was something about pleasing Sebastian on this front that made sense, he'd trust Sherlock more in future, not watch as close. Well, no matter how close he got, he'd probably still allow Sherlock to bring the ring down sans consequences. A lot of freedom came from having only oneself to worry about, rather than friends or landladies. Very nearly relaxing.

Shouldn't get used to it. But here they were going to smoke together. To...David Bowie, if he was correct in recognizing the voice. Sherlock accepted the joint, slipping it between two fingers and cupping his hands, inhaling deeply at the open circle of finger and thumb. Smoother that way, and more hygienic than sharing from mouth to mouth. He puffed twice, handing it back and exhaling smoke like a smiling dragon. "I'd inquire about your day but it seems to be going well," he said pleasantly, dropping into the chair near the desk.

-

_Ha._ Sebastian's smile twitched in response, but otherwise... No, he couldn't let this betray him. Instead he just took the joint, shrugging, "Might've had too much. Uh... Beer? Whiskey? Got stuff." And oh, right, in all the attempts to get out of his head, he'd forgotten about the offering in the balcony. Whatever. "Can bother the front desk for anything else."

-

Too much. Hm. So definitely lonely, but more for conversation than anything that would have required physical focus: answered the question of why he invited  _Sherlock_ as opposed to anyone else. Sort of did, anyhow. "I don't ordinarily drink, but..." He eyed the bottles on the desk, selected a cup and the whiskey, poured a little to sip at. Something to do while interrupting Moran's classic rock reverie - invited to or not, felt...private, somehow. "Should your phone ring for work and you're too inebriated, I will _happily_ field the call for you," Sherlock teased.

-

"Sure. How's your Eton-gone-awry accent?" Seb asked, winking, giggling for a moment when the song shuffled to Soul Love. _B_ _astard..._

-

Sherlock raised his eyebrows faintly. It was actually nice that Moran trusted him to be around in this state, though he knew better than to believe it would render the sniper any less dangerous. Just _giggly_ , apparently. But maybe his day _hadn't_ gone so well. Sherlock leaned forward, anticipating the joint once more, only paying 25% of attention to the music. "I'd manage," he shrugged.

-

"Yeah." Seb handed it back, smiling fondly. Wouldn't be half as fond if he weren't smashed, but. Jim would've liked it. _Dick._ But it was his birthday. "He would've been 35 today." He said, struggling not to let the pain break through the inebriation.

-

Sherlock took the joint carefully but paused before bringing it to his mouth.

Oh.

His face fell slightly, complete comprehension washed over him: the drunkenness, the need for company that might understand...Sherlock  _knew_ the date from files but lost track of time when working. And now he didn't know quite what to feel or say, striving to remain untouched by this, for the other's sake. "Did he make much of his birthday?" he asked, giving Moran the opportunity to talk, to reminisce, as he leaned back and took a long drag, careful not to cough.

-

"Nah. Didn't even tell me for _years._ " He thought back -- when did Jim tell him? Did he, or did was there just a pattern of grump around this time? "We'd usually go to dinner, after I found out. Maybe travel somewhere." He looked out the sliding glass door to the balcony, candle burning against the night. "What do you do for yours?"

-

Taking another hit, Sherlock considered. "Went somewhere nice, if I was on my own. Museums, the like. Ignored my brother's calls. Parents being away, could hardly ignore their calls, but no parties or any of that rot." But it seemed important to let Sebastian know he'd likely made a difference. Sherlock could only use himself as reference for it, looking pensive. "Though I'll admit if they neglected it entirely, I may have been disappointed." He handed the joint back.

-

"Sounds nice. Boring..." Seb took a final drag, tapping the rest out in the bedside ashtray. He procured another from his bag. "C'mere," he muttered, perching it between his lips to light it.

-

Sherlock's eyes widened for a second. Constant stream of marijuana for the entire evening, apparently. He wasn't opposed. Already felt quite pleasant. _What for?_ Curiosity overruled suspicion; he couldn't really place why he acquiesced to Sebastian's request but he did, rising from the chair and moving towards the bed. "Did he spoil you for your birthdays? I feel he would have," Sherlock asked, sitting at the edge. Not out of overt sentiment but more for sake of fun and holidays and expensive anythings.

-

"That he did." Seb stopped a moment, remembering, "Wasn't always about material gifts though, even if I always got one." He smirked, lighting it up, taking a long drag before passing it off. He exhaled, "Think you would've liked him on his more whimsical days too. He was almost like a real person, but... Smarter."

-

What else? Oh. Of course. Moran probably wasn't talking solely about attention and days off. Sherlock felt his face warm a little, mind conjuring images whether or not he wanted them. He was certain that had been done on purpose, yet he stayed put and took the pungent smoke. "I've no doubt I would have," Sherlock said softly. But rather than plunge into mournfulness and despair again he drew in an excessive lungful, eyes glazing over, lids lowering as he exhaled. Smiling at the effect more than the storytelling. Yes, remembering Jim felt better with pot as strong as this.

-

"Well..." Sebastian rolled his shoulders, "Not that you weren't  _clearly_ a fan of his company before, right?" He lightly elbowed Sherlock's arm, "All starstruck at the pool, practically salivating in the court room."

-

Not this again! _I wasn't salivating, damn you._ But it was true enough that Jim had fascinated Sherlock more than anyone ever had, and that, given the right circumstances, yes, it had been possible to imagine from time to time that they might... Sherlock's shoulders straightened but he gave no other reaction that spelled annoyance. "Yes, good thing we weren't in the same room often," he muttered, taking another quick drag and handing it over, gaze averted to the window. A candle on the balcony? Ah. Sweet. _Well, fine, there, I admitted it. Happy birthday._

-

Taking a long drag, Sebastian ran a finger down Sherlock's arm. "Dunno. Could've be entertaining. Either kill each other or _really_ settle the issue," he snickered, fingers lingering on the back of Sherlock's palm. "Then I'd have had to kill you, but you know, fun while it lasted."

-

The touch was something to which he was unaccustomed, ergo a tiny bit thrilling, but what?

All Sherlock could do, regardless of good mood, was side-eye Sebastian Moran as if he'd just grown six more eyes or a tail.

-

"What?" Seb grinned, not removing his hand, "Thought you enjoyed death threats."

-

He didn't remove his hand. Didn't  _hate_ the touch, but had no idea what it meant. "Jim..and I," he began carefully, "...would never have been able to trust each other. Which. Could have been plenty exciting but if he... _loved_ me as you say, I...think it could only have ended badly, wouldn't have truly settled a thing and I prefer not to make light of any of it." _Any more_ , anyway. He'd made light of it back then, and knew now the error in that. "As for...whatever you're attempting, I- have already been informed you've had too much to drink."

-

"You didn't trust him?" Seb scoffed, dropping the joint on the carpet, crushing it under his foot without looking, glazed over eyes fixed on Sherlock's. "You trusted him enough to let him in your flat, alone. Invited him to the pool, even if I was watching from behind a brand new scope. As for what  _I'm_ doing..." He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper, "You're not the least bit curious?"

-

Sherlock drew in a long breath, ready to clarify at length but he was partially _stoned_ , how was he to properly explain that it was the _world_ that would never let them trust each other?! Even if he could, he barely had time before Sebastian upped the ante in the game he wanted to play. Oh, it had its appeal. Finding out firsthand what Jim kept him around for. Jim may have _flirted_ , but he wasn't as bold about it as all this. And Moran...wasn't unattractive. But such betrayal of Jim's memory, wasn't it, to even think such things. "I very much doubt he threw us together with that in mind," Sherlock asserted. "Besides." He turned his face to look evenly at Moran, too close to the sniper's own. "You're drunk and I'm stoned." Not inviting, yet hardly a forever No. He turned his wrist, giving Sebastian's hand a quick squeeze before pulling his away. If he was still going to be whispered-at, so be it, it wasn't unpleasant, but would get Moran nowhere as far as Sherlock could see.

-

"But do you really know what he wanted anymore? I sure don't." Sebastian placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pushing him back into the mattress, though not changing his own position. He craned his neck down to look at him over his shoulder. "And I'll have you know I've made plenty of terrible decisions when drunk, and it's never turned out badly." He ran his palm down there detective's shirt, stopping at his stomach. "Besides. He'd  _love_ it. Appreciated things that shouldn't happen." And all things Sherlock, really, that didn't have to do with that silly dough ball he lived with. Though admittedly, he wasn't sure if jealousy or pride would prevail here -- maybe he'd Ouija board it sometime.

-

Strange balance, not being sure but not wishing to upset Sebastian on this particular night. Sherlock could move away but he relaxed back instead; it felt fine to do so, and if he was alarmed his hazy eyes barely widened enough to show it. His heart was racing, though, as he glanced down at the scarred hand, felt its weight, realized how near it was to somewhere more interesting. "Th-then...it comes down to what _we_ want, and as regards me I feel you may be confused on that point." There was no earthly reason Sebastian might decide he suddenly wanted Sherlock. No loneliness was  _that_ extreme. He licked his lips. "I may be as well." Yes, they had plenty over which to sympathize. Yes, death threats were enjoyable and so was this so far. But that didn't make it a good idea. "And I'd likely disappoint you." Sherlock set his hand over Sebastian's, trailed it up muscular arm, a simple touch to say _I'm not running away. But this much could be enough for us both._ And knowing Jim had done exactly this, found something in doing so...Warped. Comforting. Wrong reason. "Have you-  since Jim, I mean. With anyone." Talking, yes, stick with that.

-

"Sex isn't confusing, and aside from one particularly bad incident with a tongue ring, rarely disappointing," Seb corrected, toeing out of his shoes, twisting to kneel on the bed, not breaking contact. Oh, he was _adorable_. "And... Yes. Quite a lot. Why? Have you?"

-

_Since **Jim**!_ Such unnecessary phrasing, when nothing had happened between them. "Just curious. And no, I haven't. And that's not changing tonight," he met Sebastian's eyes as added, firm in tone for all its surprised softness.

-

Sebastian hummed, hand sliding under his shirt, "Why? Think you can't trust me either?"

-

The touches...were not abhorrent. Sherlock could admit that much. But his hand tightened on Sebastian's shoulder in slight warning, hazy eyes narrowing some. "Is what you're doing now supposed to assure me on that point?"

-

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, "You said no sex. I've got no intention that way. I asked a question. Just call it curiosity."

-

"It's not about trust, no." Sherlock's hand fell from Sebastian's shoulder, not knowing where it belonged. "Why, what - what was the other question?"

-

"Why, if not trust?" Seb lightly raked his nails down his surprisingly well-sculpted abs, "Aren't I pretty enough?"

-

Sherlock bit back on a gasp, having felt that _all_ too intensely, and regarded the man looming over him. His icy eyes were certainly lovely, and the rest of him appealing too, but again _not the bloody point._ "You're not...unpleasant to look at," Sherlock offered, but turned immediately onto his side, dragging Sebastian's fingers out of his shirt and clasping his own fingers over them. Trust was present, indeed, turning his back on Moran and allowing him close. "I've already _told_ you why, just because you've made good decisions whilst off your head doesn't mean I have, and to elaborate or to argue it would somewhat harsh the buzz. So can you...not?" Still probably more polite and less violent than Jim turning him down, Sherlock was willing to wager.

-

Normally, Sebastian wasn't so easily maneuvered, but... Couldn't scare him off. Hand clasped down, he just hugged him closer. So sex wasn't so easy for him, interesting, but if he'd learned nothing else from Jim, it was accepting an order not to pry. He kissed the back of his neck. "Yeah, okay."

-

Sherlock focused on breathing, on trying to make it alright in his head that on tonight of all nights, Sherlock was where Jim would be, Sebastian was where Jim had apparently longed to be, and all the thinking got stopped by a hot shiver down his back, making his eyes pop wide open. That. Had felt all too nice. "What's the point of seducing me if you know I'm not going to sleep with you," Sherlock asked when he could speak again. Because laying here (mostly) comfortable with Bowie on was not seduction, but that kiss sure as hell felt like it.

-

Sebastian let out a low rumble of a laugh, "But that logic, why live, if one day I'm going to die?" He softly ran his lips over his nape. Maybe it was good Sherlock had denied him, clearly the combination of booze and weed had melted his brain. Jim wouldn't have wanted _this,_ right? He'd have wanted some lusty get down, not getting all emotional on his behalf. Because bargaining for it just meant it was compromise in its entirety.

-

Did Sebastian have to keep doing that?! Christ. Sherlock's breath caught, lashes fluttering, fingers tightening over Sebastian's for a second. _Evil_. "Y-yes, but...not only about you, this time. So. I'll be your...teddy bear for the night, I suppose. S'comfortable. But you're- you shouldn't- oh, I'm high, what's it matter what I'm saying..." Floaty. Enough to laugh a little at all this, and enjoy it.

-

"It's okay," Seb whispered, kissing the shell of his ear. "My fault for not really answering your question though, isn't it?" He laughed again, but with no volume to it, just the rustling of his chest and breath. "Why would I seduce you, if you're not going to sleep with me right at this moment? Because..." He nuzzled his nape, "Not today. But someday."

-

More shivers, more nerves sparking beneath lips and rough stubble. It was glorious, but...Sherlock was nowhere near as sure as his charming new _friend_ sounded. "That's...distracting," he murmured. "I'd prefer to relax just now than..." _Than be toyed with_. "And where'd my drink go?..." He began to sit up.

-

Seb let him up, running a finger down his spine, "You like distractions," he stated simply, "But maybe a movie would be better. Or a dead body."

-

"Can you go a whole movie without attempting to arouse me?" Sherlock asked wryly, getting his breath back if not his better sense. Being a little high felt marvelous. And in that state he really hadn't minded Sebastian's arm around him - more than not minded, his body was betraying how much he hadn't, and he kept his back to the other man as he leaned over the edge of the bed to get his cup. A dead body sounded fine too but there were no dissection tools in here, and a mini-fridge could barely fit a foot on its shelves. And, and how could he pay proper attention to such a thing when Sebastian had succeeded in... _intriguing_ his oft-ignored libido, if not winning it over entirely...

-

"Mm. No. But there's more weed, I'm not a total monster." Sebastian teased, sitting up, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist, resting his chin on his shoulder, "'Sides. It's not an 'attempt' if it's working."


End file.
